The Lion's Den
by Halia
Summary: Sands finds himself broke and unemployed in Manhattan. So, of course it’s a big (but not entirely pleasant) surprise when the legendary Mariachi comes knocking, asking to help investigate gruesome murders mysteriously linked to Sands' past. Ch. 6 up!
1. Cold Rabbits and Guitars

The Lion's Den  
  
Rating: R for language  
  
Summary: This chapter generally deals with where Sands is (but not what he's been up to; that's for later) since that fateful meeting with the cartel six months before. He also meets up with an unexpected (but hardly welcome) old acquaintance...enjoy!  
  
x x x x x  
  
"That comes to $2.50."  
  
"Sure." A self-rolled cigarette hung limply between Sheldon Jeffrey Sands' chapped pink lips as his hands dug into his brown coat pockets. He fumbled around for a bit, then finally produced three dollar bills and placed them on the Starbucks counter and took his cappuccino, then took a long, steady sip. He listened to the coins in the cash register clinking against each other. Someone behind him was listening to mind-numbingly annoying techno music that was thrice as loud as anyone's normal hearing capacity could handle. "I'm kinda in a hurry, buddy, come on."  
  
"Just hold on a sec," muttered the kid, who sounded no older than fifteen. He finally plopped a few coins in Sands' palm, and he fingered each one to make sure it was correct.  
  
"Thanks." Sands pulled his gloves over his cold fingers and walked out of the Starbucks with two hands slightly in front of him, clutching his cappuccino.  
  
It was freezing already, at 8-fucking-am.  
  
Sands groped his way down 86th and Lexington, still trying to get used to the feel of the street. He had just moved in with his cousin Hunter, after his tendency for not paying the rent on time in his old place was apparently pissing certain people off.  
  
He knew that after you passed Starbucks there was a Staples, then a Barnes and Nobles, and then a subway station. Then there was a rather conveniently large Best Buy on the corner, where Sands frequently would stop by just to nose around and irritate the employees by fiddling incessantly with the video cameras.  
  
The only thing Sands hated about New York now was the traffic lights. Glowing signs that read "Walk" and "Don't Walk" obviously weren't of much use to him, so usually he just stood very, very close to a person (even though it made them uncomfortable as hell) and just sort of moved with them. If they went forward, so did he; if they stopped suddenly, he stopped with them.  
  
And Sands never admitted he was blind. Ever. Unless it got him a free meal. In cases like crossing the street, it was generally a case of...well, he didn't know. He'd just make something up. One time, he heard a woman in a husky voice ask why he was standing so close, and his on-the-spot reply was it was because he thought she was beautiful--and that lady turned out to be a very flattered Nicole Kidman. So spontaneity certainly had its perks.  
  
He turned the corner and began down 86th and 3rd, running nonstop into burly men and giddy teenagers, trying to plow his way down to York Avenue. Sands didn't go outside much; too many people. Usually the trip was only for his morning coffee.  
  
He arrived at the apartment at last. He pressed the intercom, and a muffled voice moaned, "What? Who is it?"  
  
"It's Jeff. Let me up."  
  
The line clicked off, and the door gave a loud obnoxious buzz. Sands pushed through the door, trudged over to the elevator and rode up to the sixth floor.  
  
He opened the front door, which was always left stupidly unlocked, and "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane was playing loudly somewhere in the house.  
  
"Hunter," he yelled, "turn that goddam music off."  
  
"Fuck you," came a lazy shout from the bedroom.  
  
Sands tested the area in front of him with his feet until he finally found a chair. He plopped himself down and finished sipping his drink, and then he let out a sigh. "Did you make me breakfast?"  
  
"Who the fuck do you think I am? Marcia Brady? Make your own fuckin' breakfast."  
  
"I can't, asshole," Sands muttered.  
  
"What proof do I even have that shows me you're fucking blind, anyway?" A young, handsome man with a thin build and dark hair walked slowly into the living room, where Sands was sitting. Sands heard him yawn. "Since you won't ever take those fuckin' sunglasses glasses off..."  
  
"Shut up. Make me breakfast."  
  
"What time is it...?"  
  
Sands frowned and shrugged as Hunter paused, presumably checking his watch. Sands kicked his boots off and fully reclined on the couch he was sitting on.  
  
"Holy shit," hissed Hunter. Sands heard him dart across the room and down to the bedroom. "I'm fucking late!"  
  
"What am I supposed to do about breakfast?" asked Sands loudly.  
  
"Figure it out yourself, for god's sake! There's a diner on the corner, just"--he heard him pause as he pulled his shirt over head--"check it out. I gotta go." Sands heard Hunter come back into the living room, holding keys that jingled merrily in his hands as he moved. "Okay, so the keys are in the bowl..." He heard the keys drop. "Phone is on the wall, and the door is, uh...right here."  
  
"Very descriptive," muttered Sands. "I appreciate it."  
  
"Shut up. If you have any problems, call...well, call the police, I guess. Bye."  
  
"Have a good day, love ," Sands drawled. He heard Hunter give a short grunt and close the door behind him.  
  
He was alone now.  
  
He heard a Rolling Stones song playing now, probably coming from the bedroom. It was irritating, but Sands didn't dare go in and try to turn it off. A blind man in Hunter's bedroom would probably lose his life after about four minutes. His cousin kept an enormous python named Siggy in a fish tank; furniture was always overturned, there were clothes all over the place--it was a nightmare.  
  
Stupid asshole, he thought. Can't even pour a bowl of cereal for his poor kinsman.  
  
Well, he sure as hell wasn't going to any diner. He got up and strutted over to the kitchen area, which he hadn't yet been in. It was a frighteningly tiny kitchen, with an enormous fridge and counters that formed a right-angle in the corner. That left about twenty-four square inches of empty space for him to move around.  
  
He ran his hands over the cupboards, pulled one open and to his great relief found a tall, slender box. He smiled to himself and shook it-- definitely cereal. He took a bowl from the shelf, opened the box and poured, then took a carton from the fridge and doused his cereal. He took a spoon from the silverware drawer, which took a while to find, mixed up his breakfast with it, and put some in his mouth...then promptly spat it out.  
  
It was cat food in half-and-half.  
  
"Fuck," he gagged. "Holy fuck..." He groped around for the sink, finally found it and drank greedily from the faucet, spitting every few seconds.  
  
He heard a soft mew behind him, knowing that it was Hunter's cat Tom.  
  
"If I still had my gun, I'd shoot you," Sands hissed. The cat yowled and he heard it pad away.  
  
Guess it was off to the diner after all. He thrust his boots and jacket on again, took the keys from the bowl and slammed the door behind him.  
  
"On the corner," Hunter had said. Very fucking informative, indeed.  
  
He licked the roof of his mouth irritably; the dense and bitter taste of the cat food and cream was still in his mouth. He should have brushed his teeth, but he was starving.  
  
When he opened the front door, the freezing air grabbed him suddenly, making him shudder.  
  
"Where's the fucking diner?" he asked aloud. He could feel passer-by's eyes hot on his skin. He reached out and touched someone shoulder, and before they could cry out he asked, "Is there a diner nearby?"  
  
"Right on the corner," replied the obviously confused man. God damn, Sands thought, people are morons.  
  
"Which corner?"  
  
"Well, just go to the end of the block," said the man quietly. "See?"  
  
"Um, yeah. Thanks." Sands gave let him go and he put his hands in his pockets, and then started down the street. When he got to the fucking "corner," he held his breath and walked in.  
  
Success! It sure sounded and smelled like a diner; he hoped to god he wasn't just playing the stupid blind guy again.  
  
"How many?" asked a peppy woman, whose voice came out of nowhere and caused Sands to jump.  
  
"Just me," he answered quickly.  
  
"Right this way."  
  
Again, a useless instruction, but luckily she was wearing pretty strong perfume, and he followed her as closely as he could. He heard the menu being slapped on the table with some silverware, and he scooted into a booth next to the window.  
  
He finally felt somewhat at rest. This feeling lasted until about ten minutes after the waiter took his order--someone was watching him.  
  
Sands was able to pick up this feeling better than virtually anyone, especially now that he was blind--which didn't make much sense to him at all, but he just knew it. He felt eyes on him, and he didn't like it.  
  
What troubled him was that it wasn't just a simple glance, or a normal person just gazing off into space. Somebody was actually watching; spying even.  
  
Then the feeling was gone, abruptly. The eerie presence ceased, and Sands exhaled heavily and slumped in his seat. He heard the front door open, felt the cold air prickling his skin, and the perky woman asked the customer how many.  
  
"I'm meeting someone," he said.  
  
Sands focused all his attention on this guy, which was something he had gotten very good at; singling a person out of a crowd, that is. The man wore pants that jingled as he walked, probably with a set of chains in his pocket, and he had what sounded like heeled boots on. Cowboy boots, perhaps.  
  
Then Sands tensed. The man was moving to his side of the restaurant.  
  
Sands, who always followed the better-safe-than-sorry rule, slowly took his knife off his placemat and held it under the table.  
  
The boots stopped next to Sands. The man was standing right next to him, but didn't say anything. He walked a bit further, and Sands heard him slide into the booth.  
  
"So how's business?" he asked. His voice was low and husky, almost weathered--and Mexican.  
  
Holy shit...  
  
Mexican. From Sands' past experience with Mexicans, he learned they were people he'd rather avoid--that, or blow their fucking brains out.  
  
"Who the fuck are you?" asked Sands sharply.  
  
The man paused. "You don't recognize me?"  
  
"Apparently not."  
  
"Think back."  
  
"No. Now you can either give me a fucking name, or get the fuck out of here."  
  
"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" asked the man, a smile in his voice. Sands, however, was not particularly enthused.  
  
"Now!"  
  
He heard the waiter come by and place Sands' BLT and Pepsi in front of him. "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane started up on the radio, for the second time that day, Sands noticed.  
  
Suddenly the man was chewing on something. "This is good."  
  
Sands put his hand on his plate; one of the halves of the sandwich was missing. "That's my fucking lunch!"  
  
"Shut up. This is delicious. Think I should go in and shoot the cook?" the man quipped, then let out a smooth chuckle.  
  
Sands stopped. Now the voice sounded familiar.  
  
'You want me to shoot the cook?' 'No. I'll shoot the cook. My car's parked out back anyway.'  
  
"Holy shit," muttered Sands. "You're that El guy. El Mari...fachi..."  
  
"Mariachi," El grunted, the accent rolling freely across his tongue.  
  
"Yeah, whatever. Why are you in New York? Finally given up on that shithole of a country?"  
  
"Not quite," grumbled El, obviously irritated by Sands' brashness on the subject. "I need your help."  
  
Sands almost laughed. He shoved a handful of fries into his mouth and chewed hungrily. "My help?" He took a sip of his Pepsi. "You need my help?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And why's that?"  
  
El took a deep breath, and said, "Children are being murdered throughout Mexico City. And women. All in a particular way..."  
  
"Shot?" asked Sands bluntly. He almost laughed at this again.  
  
El wasn't amused in the slightest, but he seemed to ignore Sands' comment. "The victims were found with their eyes and tongues pulled out, ears cut off. The boys had their genitalia removed"--Sands winced--"and the girls had their throats sliced."  
  
"I don't mean to be crude," muttered Sands, "I mean, I care just as much about mass homicide as the next person, but what the fuck does this have to do with me?" He paused. "Or you, for that matter?"  
  
"I'm getting to it," hissed El, irritated.  
  
Sands lifted his hands in a meant-no-offense gesture, and then continued eating.  
  
"These are just maniacs," El continued. "They are killing at random--and at large. The reason I come to you today is quite complicated, but I'll do my best to explain--"  
  
"They?" asked Sands. "There's more than one?"  
  
"We know it is a gang from some evidence and eyewitnesses," El said. "The reason I am concerned with all this is because they killed several children and their mother in my village. Good people. Ones I knew well, and who did not deserve to die."  
  
"So you're just trying to avenge them," said Sands slowly.  
  
"In a way, yes. But I am also curious to crack this case, because it involves you."  
  
"How?"  
  
"We captured one of the gang. His name was Less Hewitt."  
  
"American?" asked Sands, raising his eyebrows.  
  
"Yes. We don't believe there to be any Mexicans in this gang, we got that out of Hewitt. He also said..." El paused. It sounded like he was pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket. "Here."  
  
He pushed the note over to Sands.  
  
Shit.  
  
Sands cleared his throat. He picked up the paper, 'looked' at it, then shook his head and handed it back to El. "I don't have my reading glasses."  
  
"Fine. It says, 'Find S. Jeffrey Sands. His brothers are waiting in the Lion's Den.' Does that mean anything to you?"  
  
Sands shrugged. "Nothing whatsoever."  
  
"I was surprised to see your name," said El. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was naming a suspect."  
  
"Hey, pal, don't you start pointing any fucking fingers," growled Sands. "I've been in New York the last six months staying with my..."  
  
"Girlfriend?"  
  
"No. Cousin. And I've been far better-off in Manhattan than in your fucking Ciudad de Muchcas-Crap."  
  
"Well, you must return with me to Mexico," said El flatly. "I need your help, Agent Sands."  
  
"No fuckin' way," hissed Sands. He took out a cigarette, licked the tip and put it in his mouth, then cracked the flame on in a smooth hiss with his lighter.  
  
"Why were you fired?" asked El suddenly.  
  
"No," said Sands curtly, "I haven't been fired. I'm still employed, and I'm still on their payroll, but they're still deciding whether or not..."  
  
"Bullshit," El muttered.  
  
"It's not bullshit, you fuckin' whore," spat Sands angrily. "If I hadn't gotten my eyes ripped out by that fucking Barillo..."  
  
His voice trailed off as he realized he'd gone too far. Way too far.  
  
"What?" asked El sharply. "They took your eyes?"  
  
Sands didn't say anything, but he felt two hands suddenly touch his temples. It was the first time somebody had touched him since Adrejez pressed her lips against his, and then fell dead on the ground in front of him. The glasses slid off a tiny bit.  
  
"Holy fuck," drawled El, pressing the glasses back on Sands' face and sitting back in his chair. He sounded horrified. "What did they do to you?"  
  
"Just what you think they did," muttered Sands. He took a long drag of his cigarette, dug some change out of his pocket and slapped it on the table. He didn't bother to count how much; it could have been a $1 or a $50, but he was in too much of a strange dazed state. He stood up and left the restaurant, stumbling a bit over the linoleum floor, and closed the door behind him.  
  
The cold air attacked him, but it didn't bother him all too much. He felt tired. He went briskly back into Hunter's apartment, slamming the door and lying on the couch. He exhaled heavily. "I'm not going," he breathed. "No fuckin' way." He dozed off a few minutes later. 


	2. Twisted Ride

The Lion's Den  
  
Rating: (for this chapter) R for language  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Robert Rodriguez. He da man.  
  
Chapter Summary: Sands is dragged back. And not the least bit happy about it.  
  
x x x x x  
  
Sands stirred a bit, his muscles aching horribly, and he stretched his arms far up, but realized his legs couldn't lengthen out fully. There was something in the way. Cold air was flying all around him, and his first thought was that perhaps it was a dream, but it couldn't be. It was too real.  
  
"Oh fuck," he breathed. "Oh, fuck..."  
  
He tried kicking, and the force wouldn't give way.  
  
"You're awake," said a voice ahead of him.  
  
Sands shot up. His heart was racing, and he felt around for a few minutes  
  
A car. He was in the back seat of a car...a convertible, to be precise.  
  
"What the fuck, El!?" screamed Sands, kicking wildly against the back of the seat. "You fucking kidnapped me! You crazy asshole!"  
  
"Aye, quit it!" hollered El, reaching behind him and slapping Sands' shins and knees. "I don't want to have to go back there..."  
  
"Oh, I wish you would. I'm fucking begging you. You get your scrawny Mexican ass back here right now, you stupid fuck, so I can kick it real hard."  
  
"I'm terrified," muttered El. "Come up in the front, it's not as cold."  
  
"What are you gonna do now? Rape me? Slice off my prick with a pair of scissors?"  
  
"Get in the fucking front seat," hissed El. Sands suddenly felt the barrel of a gun against his throat; the metal was cold and dull, but he knew a gun when he felt one.  
  
Sands tetchily stepped over to the front seat and pulled his seatbelt over his chest. "How did you get me in here?"  
  
"I drugged your drink at the diner," said El. Sands could tell he was smirking. "You need to take care to your drinks more carefully, my friend. It will get you in trouble one day."  
  
"One day? I'd say I'm in some fucking trouble right now."  
  
"Well, I won't rape you, I can assure you that. You're not my type."  
  
"Oh, really," grumbled Sands. He slid down further in his seat and leaned his head against the window panel. "I fucking hate you."  
  
"Fine with me."  
  
"You're taking me back to New York when this is over, is that clear?" asked Sands angrily. "No buts. What time is it?"  
  
"6:30 in the morning."  
  
"Perfect...my cousin probably thinks I'm lying in a gutter somewhere. Not that he'd care, really, but god dammit, El..."  
  
"It's all right, I left him a note. 'Be back soon, had to take care of business in Mexico.'"  
  
"How thoughtful," Sands drawled. El punched his shoulder.  
  
"Shut up. I'm still the kidnapper."  
  
"The fucking hostile kidnapper," growled Sands. "How long until we get to Mexico?"  
  
"This afternoon," El said.  
  
"Holy Jesus...how long was I knocked out for? What did you fucking give me?" Sands slapped El on the back of the head. El only returned the gesture.  
  
"White Rabbit" came on the radio.  
  
"Holy shit!" screamed Sands, "That's the fucking third time today! Or this week. Or..."  
  
"You've been asleep for four days. You woke up a few times, of course, but I slipped the pills in your food," said El.  
  
"You asshole!" hollered Sands. "I don't believe this...wait for the headlines. I can just see them: 'Adult Male CIA Agent Taken Captive by Mexican Armed Solely with Guitar.' That's rich."  
  
"That's America," answered El with a smile.  
  
"No. That's Mexico," muttered Sands, lighting a cigarette. "That's fucking Mexico. I have to take a piss."  
  
"Hold it in until 2:00," El said.  
  
"Fuck you!" shouted Sands again. "You deprive me of the right to piss, you drug me, you kidnap me...Jesus Christ. You must have broken one of the Ten Commandments there, you stupid cunt."  
  
"Ah-ah, watch it," El sang. "I don't like much cursing either."  
  
"Oh, well, I'm sorry. Asshole."  
  
El clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.  
  
Sands felt calmer after a few minutes. It was probably just a hangover effect of the drug, but he felt the wind smooth through his dark hair and ripple across his skin. He heard mourning doves coming from both sides, and he could feel the rising sun hot on his face.  
  
"Am I still fuckin' high?" he slurred.  
  
He knew El shrugged. "Probably. Why do you ask?"  
  
"Everything feels so fucked up, and..." He twirled his hands around absentmindedly. "Pretty..."  
  
"Get back to sleep," murmured El. "You'll feel better after that."  
  
So that's just what Sands did. He slept. He slept dreamlessly, uncomfortably.  
  
Later on, when the sound of guitars and purring trumpets and perky male singing voices skipped through his ears, he knew it--he was back. He was back in Mexico. And what bothered him was that he had a gut feeling that he was going to be here for a long, long time. 


	3. Tequila and Thoughts Like Lightning

The Lion's Den  
  
Rating: R (I don't know why I keep sticking this in here. Lol, every chapter is likely to be rated R. Sands just doesn't have the cleanest of mouths, does he?)  
  
And now, on to the amazing, lovely reviewers:  
  
Merrie--Thank you SO much for your wonderful review! And bonus points to you for getting the F+L references, I was hoping someone would pick them up. The book and film are awesome, aren't they? Glad to see there's another enthusiast out there! And again, thanks so much for your great review. I appreciate it infinitely. Hope you keep enjoying!  
  
Mad Vampiress Boopsie--Thanks a lot! Glad you like it so far!  
  
Claire--Thank you for your sweet review! I hoped I wasn't going too overboard with Sands and his cynicism, but you cheered me right up. Cheers!  
  
x x x x x x  
  
"I hate you."  
  
"You've said that twelve times already," said El, sitting across the table from the far-beyond-agitated Sands, as they waited for their food to come in a small family-owned restaurant.  
  
Sands yawned and scratched his temple. "I can't say it enough...you stupid jerk. I can't believe you actually physically kidnapped me--"  
  
"It had to be done," replied El firmly. "Who knows, when this gang finds you, they may stop committing these crimes."  
  
"I don't even know who these fuckers are," hissed Sands. "What if they're the cartel and just wanna play with me a little more?"  
  
"It's not the cartel. They're not this...ah. ¿Como se dice? Showy?"  
  
"Showy?" asked Sands, wrinkling his nose. "They're showy?"  
  
"Well, they like to draw attention to themselves. That is very, very different from the cartel that did that to you, my friend." Sands supposed he was pointing to his eyes and tightened his fist. He hated that El knew, which was stupid, because he was bound to find out anyway, but it still was a weakness. El had already taken advantage of him, and he didn't want it to happen again, but the likelihood that Sands could prevent it was very small. Without his sight, Sands was in El's control. "The cartel tries to remain as discreet as possible, especially in their killings. These crimes are very public. They want everyone to see what they're doing."  
  
"I see," muttered Sands. "Where did you find that note? The one that mentioned me?"  
  
"I didn't find it. I wrote it down. Hewitt told me while I had him under wraps."  
  
"Yes, about that Hewitt guy...when you mentioned him earlier, you said something like 'we had him in custody' or something. Who's 'we'?"  
  
"I have two...well, you could call them friends. Associates, really. We found Hewitt and squeezed as much juice out of him as we could."  
  
"More guitar-slinging pretty boys?" asked Sands, taking a long shot of his tequila. He exhaled loudly and wiped his mouth.  
  
El chuckled. He paused for a few seconds and said, "Were you fired, Sands? Be honest."  
  
"No," he replied curtly. "No, I wasn't fired, for the last fucking time. I'm still on their payroll. I just don't get jobs on location much, unless they need a fucking blind guy for a case, and you can guess how many times that happens."  
  
"I'm sorry," El murmured. "I did not mean to offend you."  
  
"Well, then don't fucking bring it up. I don't particularly enjoy my job, thanks. I didn't enjoy it before, and I most certainly don't enjoy it now. So if it's all the same to you, I'd like to keep hush-hush about it, and know that if you ever ask me again, I'll wrap your tongue around your fucking neck. Savvy?"  
  
It seemed like El was about to reply, until a waitress speaking rapid Spanish leaned in on their table and set their meals down. When she left, El said, "You didn't get the pork."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You didn't get the pork dish. The one you always order."  
  
"Does it matter?" Sands took a large bite of his spiced rice and chewed it slowly. "So when are we getting to business?"  
  
"Why do you ask?"  
  
"Well, the sooner we clip the bastards and become saviors to little Mexican children everywhere, the sooner I get to go back to New York and get a fucking cappuccino." He sipped his tequila. "You have no idea how much you've deprived me of the basic things I need to survive by bringing me here, you know. With my coffee I am a relatively decent human being. Now you've just totally screwed me up."  
  
"I'm sorry," El quipped. "I truly am."  
  
"Shithead," Sands grumbled. He rested his fork back down on his plate. "Okay, hurry up. I'm done."  
  
"But you've barely eaten anything."  
  
"Sorry, mom."  
  
El let out a gruff sigh. "Listen, if we are going to--as you say--'clip' these 'bastards,' we are going to have to work together to do it."  
  
"Hey, I never wanted to go through with this at all, okay? Don't tell me what to do. You're lucky I haven't killed you yet."  
  
"And how would you do that? Poke me to death with your sunglasses?"  
  
"Shut up," growled Sands. "The first thing I'm doing when we leave is buying a gun."  
  
"Oh, no you're not," said El. "No way."  
  
"You stupid asshole!" screeched Sands, "What the fuck am I supposed to do in this country without a gun? I'll be lucky if I leave this restaurant and get back in the car with all my limbs still attached. Mexico is warped. It has like, psychotic 8-year-old girls who run down the street naked and attack civilians with screwdrivers. It's crazy."  
  
"I don't appreciate your prejudiced views, Mr. Sands. You can make this experience interesting, or wholly agitating. It is up to you." Sands heard El dig in his pocket and drop the change on the table. "I'll meet you in the car."  
  
Sands heard him walk to the door, the chains dangling on his jeans jingling softly. The door opened, then closed.  
  
He listened to the heavy whirr of the automatic fan above him, rubbing away a few fresh beads of sweat from his forehead.  
  
Find S. Jeffrey Sands. Tell him his brothers are waiting in the Lion's Den.  
  
Whatever the fuck that meant.  
  
Sands was finished with his lunch, but he decided to stay put for a few moments and think things over. He thought El was probably the weirdest and dumbest guy he had ever met. He was interested in arresting a bunch of psychos because Sands was involved...but why? What was the point? What would it settle?  
  
Probably nothing, he thought. He's probably just bored and wants an excuse to shoot someone.  
  
But was that it? El didn't really seem like that kind of person.  
  
Sands tried to remember what El had looked like. It was difficult, since he had only seen him twice in person, but he remembered he had bronze skin and dark hair...sharp eyes. Cold, sad eyes that could pierce iron like a sword. They were stained with both pain and joy; however he remembered it looked like they hadn't experienced the latter in many years. His eyes were very much like Sands', he thought. Sort of bruised with charcoal...marshmallows that were kept in the flame for too long.  
  
The Lion's Den...  
  
Sands couldn't control his thoughts. They spilled over one another like overflowing water glasses.  
  
Suddenly something hit him. A thought in his brain exploded and struck down all the others, and he bolted upright.  
  
Whitmore Creek Lions. His college team.  
  
Sands attended Whitmore Creek University in Maine for two years. He dropped out when he decided he did not want to become an author (the idea, he thought, that he had ever wanted to pursue a writing career in the first place was laughable) as he had first hoped.  
  
This was certainly a strange coincidence, but Sands hadn't played football; hell, he'd never even gone to a game. He thought the sport was idiotic, and he certainly couldn't remember a "Den" being involved.  
  
And as for his "brothers"...he had no idea. Perhaps it was down there somewhere, down in the deep caverns of his brain, but he had yet to dig it up. Sands had blocked out his past completely. Not on purpose, really, he just didn't think there was anything worth remembering. Evidently he was wrong.  
  
He stood up and walked out of the restaurant, tucking his hands in his pockets. The temperature outside was torture.  
  
"El?" he called. He heard a car honk loudly, and the convertible zoomed up in front of him.  
  
"Get in," said El. "Hurry."  
  
"Why hurry?"  
  
"There's been another killing," he muttered. "Let's get there while the blood's still hot." 


	4. Go Ask Alice

The Lion's Den  
  
Rating: R, for language  
  
To the lovely reviewers, who make my life complete:  
  
IloveSands--Thank you so much for reading! I seriously dig the pen name, by the way.  
  
AgentSands;CIAsFynest--Aw, you're too sweet! Thank you! Don't worry, I don't plan on making this story slash anytime soon, lol. I'm trying hard enough just to get these guys go a full day without shooting each other, so the chance that they'll fall in love in this fic is unlikely. And you've also got an awesome pen name! CIA's finest indeed.  
  
Author's Note: Just in case you have never heard the song "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane--the song that has been playing constantly on the radio in the last few chapters--I've posted the lyrics below. If you don't want to be confused later on, I suggest you take a peek at them, because the song becomes important in this chapter.  
  
One pill makes you larger  
  
And one pill makes you small  
  
And the ones that mother gives you  
  
Don't do anything at all  
  
Go ask Alice  
  
When she's ten feet tall  
  
And if you go chasing rabbits  
  
And you know you're going to fall  
  
Tell 'em a hookah smoking caterpillar  
  
Has given you the call  
  
Call Alice  
  
When she was just small  
  
When men on the chessboard  
  
Get up and tell you where to go  
  
And you've just had some kind of mushroom  
  
And your mind is moving low  
  
Go ask Alice  
  
I think she'll know  
  
When logic and proportion  
  
Have fallen sloppy dead  
  
And the White Knight is talking backwards  
  
And the Red Queen's "off with her head!"  
  
Remember what the dormouse said:  
  
"Feed your head,  
  
Feed your head,  
  
Feed your head."  
  
x x x x x  
  
He took a long drag of his cigarette and tossed it into the wind. The car was moving smoothly over a course of dirt, and the chalky smell of the pale dust was everywhere. "Is it just me," Sands said, blue smoke pouring from his lips, "or is this little road trip turning out more and more like a Scooby Doo episode?"  
  
El only made a soft grunting noise.  
  
"How'd you find out there was a killing anyway?"  
  
"News on the radio."  
  
Sands whistled. "Golly. Radio, huh? Technology prevails, as always. I'm impressed. Maybe one of your foreign lugs will invent toilet paper soon-- then you'll have something to wipe the shit off your ass."  
  
The gun poked up below his ear, but Sands only swatted it away.  
  
"Put the fucking thing down if you're not gonna use it," he muttered.  
  
"Who says I'm not gonna use it?"  
  
"Well, if you're so goddamned interested in this case, there sure as hell isn't any use in shooting me, is there? Those fuckers obviously want me. And if you want them to stop killing...well, it works both ways."  
  
"They never said anything about wanting you alive," hissed El. The cold metal left Sands' skin, and he heard him click the gun back in its holster.  
  
The radio was playing some country song; Sands leaned in and turned up the volume.  
  
A few seconds later, with an abruptness that startled El, he cried, "'Okee from Muskogee'! Great song."  
  
He didn't need eyes to sense that El's expression was one of pure bemusement.  
  
"You like music?" Sands asked.  
  
"I don't walk around with a guitar for nothing," said El flatly.  
  
"Yeah, I guess that's true." Sands laughed at himself. "You heard this song?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Jesus. It's a classic."  
  
"Really?" El could not have been more enthralled if the subject of the conversation was dental history.  
  
"Yeah. It was big when I was a kid."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Of course it fucking was. How old are you, El?"  
  
"Forty."  
  
"Wowzer. This song should've been right up your alley, then."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Sands started singing along to the song softly. His voice was pretty bad, but it could carry the tune, and he sang louder as it progressed. Near the end he was almost clapping along with it.  
  
"I don't believe this," sighed El glumly.  
  
"Are we almost there?" asked Sands when the song had finished. He pressed his fingers on the recliner button and the back of the seat went down, and then pulled it back up. Then he brought it down, and pulled it back up. Down, up, down, up...  
  
"Will you stop it!?" shrieked El. Sands scowled and brought the seat back to its upright position. "Yes, we're almost there. Just stop playing with the fucking switch."  
  
"All right, all right. Y'damn tight-ass," Sands muttered, lighting another cigarette.  
  
"Why are you so hyper?" asked El incredulously. "A woman's just been mutilated to a bloody mess, and all you do is act like a ten-year-old."  
  
"Hey, I'm here, aren't I? What do you want me to do? I'm bored shitless; I'm here, in my absolute least favorite country on the god-damned planet, 'investigating'--if you could call it that--a crime I'm not even remotely interested in."  
  
"Well, you should be interested, because you are directly involved."  
  
"What if it's another S. Jeffrey Sands?"  
  
"I doubt it."  
  
"It must be true. It's gotta be. I don't know of any fucking 'Den.' I have no 'brothers,' El. Not biologically, not metaphorically; I don't have any friends."  
  
"Then I feel bad for you," El muttered. "It's no wonder you are so miserable."  
  
Sands put on his best sulk. "I'm buying a gun. Seriously. Next stop we make, I am buying a fucking gun."  
  
"No you're not."  
  
"Yes I am."  
  
"You're not."  
  
"I am too!"  
  
"Shut up. I can't deal with this, Sands, please...just focus on what we are doing now, okay? And when all this is over, you will go back to New York and get your cappuccinos."  
  
"And you'll take me? Personally?  
  
"I'll take you personally."  
  
"Swear?"  
  
"Swear."  
  
"I don't believe you."  
  
"Oh, please. Just shut up, I can't concentrate."  
  
"Concentrate on what?"  
  
"We're here." The car stopped abruptly, and Sands nearly went flying onto the dashboard.  
  
"Shit! Holy...ow..."  
  
"Come on." El patted Sands hard on the back, making the agent wince, and stood up and started towards a small cluster of trees that was in the middle of a small canyon. A river slit the little forest in half. He turned around and saw Sands with his arms out in front of him, stumbling and turning in 360-degree circles.  
  
"El?" he called hoarsely. "You there?"  
  
"Come on," he muttered. He went up to Sands and took his arm, then led him to the edge of the canyon.  
  
"Why are we stopping?"  
  
"We are on the edge of a very steep hill. I need you to hold onto me so you don't fall, okay?"  
  
"Bullshit." Sands snatched his arm away. "I can do it myself."  
  
"Don't even try to be stubborn, Sands. You'll break your neck if you take a wrong step."  
  
"I will not."  
  
"Sands, please. Don't be difficult. The longer we wait, the colder that woman's body is becoming. We must get to the scene as soon as possible, before the police collect all the evidence."  
  
Sands only shook his head and gave a quiet laugh. He took a small step forward, then another, but then he lost it. He tripped and hurdled sideways down the sharp crevice of the hill.  
  
El watched as his body slowed as it got closer to the edge of the green trees, and then stopped completely. He didn't move again.  
  
"Sands!" shouted El. "Sands, are you all right?"  
  
From this distance, the agent was the size of El's index finger. Sands rose slowly, every inch of him covered in orange dust. He stumbled a bit, and let out a "fuck you" that was so loud it bounced off the enormous canyon walls.  
  
El started down the hill very, very slowly and got to the bottom a few minutes later. Sands hadn't started off for the crime scene yet, which El was partly thankful for--that is, until the agent gave him a solid punch in the stomach.  
  
El bit in a wince. He knew that if Sands couldn't see him react to the pain, he would have an advantage. He could show no weakness--it would only encourage Sands to fight him.  
  
"You fucking asshole," Sands hissed through clenched teeth.  
  
"I warned you," El said, shrugging. He started walking towards the clump of trees--which didn't look so small anymore--but he noticed Sands had a slight limp. "You all right?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"I'm fine. Shut the fuck up."  
  
The area inside the trees was cooler, Sands noticed. The river made a pleasant rushing noise that countered the desert silence that he was so afraid of. The pain in his ankle was excruciating, as if someone had taken a knife and cut through the muscles beneath his skin. But he held it in--he didn't want El to know he'd been hurting. His pride had been bruised enough already within the last forty-eight hours.  
  
Suddenly he heard the sound of hushed voices. Men, talking in rapid Spanish. Sands couldn't really understand them; his Spanish was broken. The only fluent language (other than English) he spoke was Italian. The languages were similar; sometimes Italian got him around in this god- forsaken country, sometimes it didn't.  
  
"¿Quién es ustedes?"  
  
The loud voice startled him. He tried to figure out what direction to look in, but the voice seemed to drip off the leaves.  
  
He felt El take his arm and pull him sideways.  
  
"Mi nombre no es importante. Esto es un agente especial de los Estados Unidos. Un Americano. Soy apenas su traductor. El ha sido ordenado investigar estos crímenes."  
  
"What did you say?" asked Sands quickly.  
  
"You are a special agent for the United States, coming to investigate these crimes. I'm your translator."  
  
"Does he speak English?" Sands tightened his grip on El's arm.  
  
"¿Habla ustedes inglés, señores?"  
  
"No." There was more than one man, then...at least four answered him.  
  
"Veamos su identificación," one said.  
  
"Do you have your badge?"  
  
"Yes--"  
  
"Give it to me."  
  
Sands dug into his jacket pocket and handed his badge to El. He heard one of the detectives read it aloud.  
  
"¿Agente Sands, eh? Bien, viene conmigo. Yo lo tomaré para ver el cuerpo; no es una vista bonita. Mi nombre es Hernando Ninquez. Soy el detective mayor para este caso."  
  
There was a long pause. El leaned in and whispered to Sands that the detective was holding out his hand, and Sands leaned in and shook it.  
  
"Mucho gusto," he muttered.  
  
"Much gusto, señor. Ahora viene, por favor."  
  
Sands let El lead him behind the inspector. "Can you give me the details on this victim?"  
  
"¿Puede dar se usted los detalles para esta víctima?"  
  
Sands had to keep from laughing out loud. They were fucking playing pretend here.  
  
El spoke the words straight after the detective.  
  
"Her name was Alice Gold; 32 years old, 5'8", 128 lbs..."  
  
Go ask Alice...  
  
Sands suddenly felt sick. His knees buckled a bit, pressing pain on his weak ankle, but El held him sturdily. "An American?"  
  
"Sí, un Americano. Ella era una maestra del primer grado que vive en Arizona..."  
  
"A first-grade teacher living in Arizona..."  
  
No, thought Sands suddenly. Oh, Christ, no...  
  
Alice Gold was his girlfriend in college. 


	5. Nightmares

The Lion's Den  
  
Rating: R, for language and graphic descriptions of gore  
  
Reviewers, reviewers, I love you all:  
  
Merrie: You're the coolest, girl. Seriously. Thank you so much for all these reviews, they make writing this worthwhile! And yes, Sands will have to watch his back. In the next few chapters, it "might get a wee bit dangerous." Thanks again!  
  
Scarlett Burns: Wow, thank you so much for the awesome review! I pretty much don't go where I'm going with this either, lol--and I can't figure out whether or not that's a good or a bad thing! I loved your fic "Sands Through the Hourglass" by the way, it was great. Keep up the amazing work, and I hope you keep enjoying!  
  
x x x x x  
  
She had been so beautiful once. So natural-looking, so perfect...  
  
She was dead now.  
  
This has to be someone else, Sands thought frantically. This can't be Alice...it just can't be...  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
El's whisper made him shiver. "You look pale."  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
"Esta aquí," announced Ninquez.  
  
Here she--it--is. Here's Alice.  
  
Sands was actually trembling. He couldn't believe it. His past was suddenly charging back at him like a psychotic horse, and he was caught so off-guard that he had nowhere to run. It was like being in a dream.  
  
El stared at the mess, made a disgusted gasp and he leaned on Sands a bit.  
  
A mangled heap that was once a girl was now a torn, bloodied mess on the ground. There were cuts all over the corpse: gashes, rips, tears...her sundress lay tattered in a thousand pieces around her body, and there were red spatters, some still wet, oozing off the dark trees. Her face was covered by her once honey-gold hair, now thickly matted with clumps of blood.  
  
"I hate to tell you," El whispered, "but you should be glad you are not able to see this."  
  
Sands bit down hard on his tongue. The fact alone that he was unable to see the body of his dead ex-girlfriend only made it worse. When you see the corpse, there it is. It's a reality. It's there, right in front of you, and that's that. But Sands was just alone with his thoughts...and the ones that flowed through his brain were nightmarish and horrible. He thought he was going to vomit. He could hear the flies and recognized the dank, coppery smell of blood.  
  
The detective began speaking calmly, and El slowly translated.  
  
"Her eyeballs are missing, along with her teeth. Her throat is cut. Position of her legs indicates she was perhaps sexually assaulted..."  
  
Sands swallowed down something that tasted vile and disgusting.  
  
How could this happen? How could this be Alice? How could she have been killed this way?  
  
"It's you," said a tiny voice in Sands' brain. "Somebody really wants you, old boy. So bad they had to go and kill your ex-girlfriend."  
  
But who knew about Alice? No one.  
  
Go ask Alice...  
  
"Sands," said a voice suddenly.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Are you sure you're all right?"  
  
"Yes, I'm fine."  
  
"He wants you to examine her," El said.  
  
"I can't," Sands breathed. "I can't, I don't want to..."  
  
"Do it," whispered El. "You have to. Otherwise he'll get suspicious."  
  
"I can't go near that thing..."  
  
"You can't even see it."  
  
Normally Sands would have kicked El's head in for such a remark, but he was too confused and frazzled to notice anything except for the fact that his college sweetheart had been reduced to a bloody pulp at his feet.  
  
He remembered how Alice used to run at him from behind and leap onto his back. She would laugh like crazy; press her face onto his neck and scream as loud as she could into his ear.  
  
He always thought it was stupid (and irritating), but he went along with her little games. Whatever made her happy.  
  
Oh, god, how clear he saw her! The creamy weight of her thighs beneath his arms as he piggy-backed her, her gold hair pulled together in two messy braids on either side of her head. She would press her hand against his mouth. It was always warm and clammy, and he had to lick it to get her to release her grip.  
  
Her hand was lying near his foot. Tightened into a fist, which meant she struggled. Sands bent down and grazed the tips of his fingers with hers. They were freezing.  
  
He used to hold those same hands such a long time ago.  
  
"¿Agente?" asked Ninquez. "¿Un problema?"  
  
"No," Sands said quietly. "No, no problema."  
  
Ninquez said something else that Sands didn't understand, and El said, "He says you may keep examining."  
  
So this was examining, huh? Fondling his ex's corpse?  
  
He felt her gently. Up her thighs, her waist, her breasts. Her sharp collarbones. Then drew his fingers up, and gagged.  
  
He felt the slick jelly-like insides of her throat. There was a thick gash across her neck, and the slice along her skin was in thick, jagged edges.  
  
He regained physical composure after a few seconds, although his mental footing was extremely unsteady, and he traced his fingers along her cheeks. Just above her nose were the two empty eye-sockets.  
  
I feel your pain, old girl, he thought.  
  
He then drew his hands down to her mouth, bit his lip and stuck them inside. It was like walking into a clammy, damp cave that hasn't seen light for twenty years.  
  
Most of her teeth were indeed missing, except for a few on the top row in the front. Sands remembered running his tongue over those teeth.  
  
Then suddenly he felt something which at first thought was the tongue, but it was too thin and crumply. He pulled it out steadily, finding that it was a note.  
  
"Jesus," whispered Sands. He handed the note to El.  
  
He glanced at the note. The paper had been white, but now it was just a red mess. What was once writing was now reduced to fuzzy, smudged black lines that ran down the page.  
  
"I can't read it," he said finally. "No puedo leer el papel."  
  
Ninquez took the letter from him and examined it, then shrugged.  
  
"Sands," said El, "it's time to go."  
  
Sands didn't say anything. He remained kneeling down by Alice Gold, first- grade teacher of Tucson, Arizona.  
  
"Sands?"  
  
Then El did something unexpected. He leaned down and put his hand on Sands' shoulder. Sands shuddered and stood up quickly.  
  
"Yeah, I'm coming. I'm coming."  
  
"How do you want to die?" he had once asked her. It was a stupid question, he knew, but it skipped merrily across his mind and it escaped his lips before he could stop it.  
  
"How do I want to die?" she repeated. She sighed and leaned in against him He remembered feeling her weight against his torso. "I'm not going to die. I'm gonna live forever."  
  
x x x x x  
  
"What was that all about?" El murmured as they were driving back to their motel (Sands had insisted on it being a Howard Johnson) as dusk was upon them. The sky bled red, purple and pale blue that stained the surface of the ocean, which you could see in the far distance, and the sun was a lazy red disk that hung over the horizon.  
  
"What?'  
  
"You didn't want to examine the body. Why?"  
  
"Well, I'm not exactly an eager beaver when it comes to surveying carcasses of bloody, fucked-up human beings."  
  
"You couldn't see it."  
  
"That made it worse. Do you have any idea of the things I was thinking about? What kind of positions she was in, what kind of things had been done to her?"  
  
El paused for a moment, then said, "If this had been anybody else, would you have acted the same?" He waited. Sands was silent. "You have a history with Alice Gold, don't you?" Still silent. "Don't you?"  
  
"I don't have a fucking history with Alice Gold," spat Sands. "I don't have anything to do with Alice Gold."  
  
They didn't speak again for the rest of the evening.  
  
x x x x x  
  
Sands dreamt that night. He could always see in his dreams, and that alone made them nightmares; he thought all sight did in his visions was taunt him relentlessly.  
  
He is sitting in a room--his room. It is bare, empty, only with a writing desk, a lamplight and his bed. There is blackness outside the windows.  
  
Shadows move on the walls; he doesn't know where they're coming from.  
  
He realizes that he's looking at the ceiling, and he sits up and stares. There are four men sitting with him, but Sands doesn't know their names. Except one.  
  
Michael Order.  
  
He's a handsome kid--beautiful, actually. With luxuriant eyes and full lips, tan complexion. He has a sort of mischievous smile that he's directing at Sands, and Sands doesn't like it.  
  
"What do you think, Jeff?" he asks. A thick London accent tugs at his words.  
  
"What do I think about what?" Sands gives an innocent smile and shrugs. His heart is pounding, but why? Michael's been his friend for years; why should he be frightened?  
  
"You're not scared are you?" Michael's eyes widen, and the smile returns to his lips. "We wouldn't want that now, would we?"  
  
Sands suddenly hears an overpowering noise of flies buzzing. Hundreds of them. He glances at all four of the men's faces, and they all look crazy. Especially Michael.  
  
"Jeff, what do you say?"  
  
"Stop," Sands breathes. "Please stop..."  
  
"Aye? It'll be fun, Jeff..."  
  
"I don't want to..."  
  
"Jeffrey?"  
  
"No! No!"  
  
The flies stop. Michael stares at Sands; he isn't smiling anymore. "But we need you, buddy. You can't just say no. It's against the rules."  
  
"I know, but..."  
  
"We agreed to play a game here, Jeffrey. Games have their rules. And we can't just go around breaking the rules, can we?"  
  
"I wasn't. I-I just...I don't want to. Please, Michael..."  
  
"Jeff, I want to show you something."  
  
Sands' chest tightens as Michael reaches behind and pulls out a black handgun.  
  
No, Sands thinks. No, no!  
  
"What if this asked you? Would you say yes?" Michael's smiling again.  
  
Sands doesn't answer. This is the first time he's seen a real gun, and he notices how his knuckles are white from clutching his bed sheets so tightly.  
  
"How about it, Jeff?"  
  
Sands can only manage a small shake of the head, and Michael laughs, points the gun at Sands' chest. He pulls the trigger three times.  
  
x x x x x  
  
"Hey, Sands, wake up." A voice and push against his shoulder sent Sands jerking awake, panting. He was holding his sheets so tightly he thought his fists would burst open. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Just a dream," Sands muttered after a few seconds. "Just a dream..."  
  
"You were had a bad scare," said El. "I saw you shaking...talking, too."  
  
"Was I?" Sands sat up and leaned against the wall behind his bed. "What was I saying?"  
  
"I couldn't tell, they were just noises."  
  
Sands exhaled heavily.  
  
"Did you dream about Alice?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Alice. The dead girl."  
  
"No, not her..."  
  
"Then what did you dream?"  
  
Normally Sands would have opposed any and all of El's questions, but he was in a sort of trace-like state from awakening so quickly. It would pass soon.  
  
"I can't remember," he muttered. He moved his neck from side to side.  
  
"Liar."  
  
"Seriously, I can't."  
  
"Sands," said El slowly, "you can't fight me all the time. It won't make this any easier."  
  
"I'm not fighting you! I can't remember my fucking dream, okay?"  
  
"I'm not talking about the dream. I'm talking about Alice."  
  
"What about Alice?"  
  
"You knew her," said El sharply. "You knew her, I could see it from the second you heard her name."  
  
Sands felt defeated, for reasons that he felt were stupid and inexplicable. He didn't want El to know about his past. Sheldon Jeffrey Sands was a whisper. Nothing more. That's what an member of the Central Intelligence Agency was all about, and now Sands didn't even measure up to a fucking mediocre CIA grunt. Some god-damned foreigner who spent his days brooding for his dead wife and child now knew of the only thing that nobody--even Sands--was supposed to think about.  
  
And that was the past. And to Sands, the past was a dangerous, sticky mess that he did not want to meddle in again.  
  
"She's dead. What else matters?"  
  
"Everything."  
  
"El, do me a favor, and keep your ass out of my fucking business. My past is none of your concern. Just like your past is none of mine, okay?"  
  
"No."  
  
"What?"  
  
"No. People are being killed because of you. I can't just sit around and watch it happen. You need to start trusting me."  
  
"Look, pal, the last time I trusted someone"--Sands removed his sunglasses-- "this happened to me. Okay? Now maybe there's some underlying psychological complex with the whole thing, but I've got a wee bit of a suspicion against nosy Mexicans who just want to stop murderous psychopaths out of the goodness of their hearts."  
  
"Fine. I understand. But promise me something."  
  
"No."  
  
"Promise me that you will be open to trusting me, at any point in time."  
  
"I can't promise anything."  
  
"You can't?"  
  
"I won't."  
  
"Well, there's a difference there..."  
  
"El...please. Just spare me." Sands slid down under his covers and turned over, away from El, who was in the opposite bed.  
  
"Sands..."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
He slept uneasily, all night listening to Alice's voice in the back of his head: I'm not going to die. I'm gonna live forever. 


	6. Crazy Moon

The Lion's Den

Rating: R for language and some violence

Note: Slightly edited from the chapter I posted a year ago, to make some of the sentences less elementary.

x x x x x

The air between the two men was uneasy for the next couple of days, uneventful as they were. Mostly they just sat around, sweating in their motel room, as Sands would call room service ever half hour or so and order something he didn't need, and El would play his guitar for hours on end. It got on Sands' nerves, but there was nothing else the poor bastard could do, he supposed.

"Do you play?" El asked him one day. No one had spoken in about 72 hours, so the sound of something other than guitar strings had startled Sands.

"What?"

"Do you play guitar?"

Sands shrugged. "No."

El thought that would be the only word he could get out of him, but to his surprise, Sands continued: "I play violin though. At least I used to, until I came down here."

"Why did you stop?"

"Well, it's kinda hard," Sands muttered, pointing at his sunglasses. "Plus I just didn't have time."

"But you did in the States?"

Sands sighed and lay down on the bed. "Before I came here I was stationed in Rome for four years. Before that, I lived in New York."

"Did you like Italy?"

"Yes."

"Would you go back?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Sands paused. "What was your wife's name, El?"

"Carolina," he said softly.

"Right. Let's say you could have Carolina back, but you could never see her face again. Would you want that?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's a dumb example. Comparing a place to a person..."

"You wouldn't want to go to Rome again because you couldn't see it?"

"It's different. I mean, being blind day-to-day isn't that hard. It's just a matter of finding out where to step, finding out where to listen...that shit is no big deal. But the worst part, for me at least, is that I was once able to see. I know that there's a ceiling fan right above me, and I know what a ceiling fan looks like. I know that I'm staring at it right now. But I can't see it. I can't see you, El." He sat up. "Look, I'm staring right at you. I don't see a fucking thing."

"I'm actually over here," quipped El, who was sitting about fifteen feet away from the direction Sands was gazing at.

Sands' brow furrowed and he lay back down. "Fuck you."

"I'm sorry," El said. "I am. I can't imagine how terrible it must be."

"You know I'm even starting to forget what I look like?" he asked the ceiling. "I can't remember where all my tattoos are; how many cavities I have; the shape of my nose; the exact color of my hair. It's all fading. This time next year I might as well look like Barbara-fucking-Streisand, it wouldn't make a difference."

"Oh, believe me, it would," muttered El.

"Anyway, my point is, I wouldn't be able to go back to Rome without seeing it, you know? I'd get off the plane, smell that air, hear the language, taste the food...but it's still incomplete. It's not Rome to me anymore. It's just a shadow." He turned over on his side. "Like most things now."

El didn't quite know what to say to this, other than the fact that he was sorry, but he knew Sands didn't want to hear his flimsy apologies.

"Well, if everything's just a shadow," he said after a while, "why do you bother to stay alive?"

Sands rolled over onto his back again, facing the ceiling. "You have a good point there. Maybe I shouldn't."

"Woah, hey, I wasn't suggesting anything," said El strongly. "I'm asking you what you think your purpose is--what you want in life."

"What do I want?" asked Sands, releasing a hefty sigh. "Instead of something I want, can it be something I don't want?"

"Sure."

Sands paused for a minute, then finally breathed, "I just don't wanna be in the dark anymore. That's all."

x x x x x

The usual silence had resumed after Sands had spoken.

The sun was going down outside. It seemed like it would end in the same fashion as every other day, which was uneventfully, but this evening the phone rang.

Sands was closer to the nightstand and he groped around for it, finally catching the receiver. "Hello?"

"Jeff?"

There was a long break. This voice was familiar.

"Who is this?"

"We're still waiting. I thought your friend made it clear that we weren't going to quit until we found you."

Sands swallowed heavily. Panic swept over him, like ice flowing in his blood, and his breathing became heavy.

"What is it?" asked El.

"W-who are you..."

"This is the Lion's Den, Jeff. This is the game. We can't just go around breaking the rules. We wouldn't want that now, would we?"

Sands' heart seemed to stop dead. His lips parted.

"Michael?" he choked. "Michael Order?"

The voice on the other line let out a crazy laugh. "You sound scared shitless, Jeff! God, you look terrible, too, I have to say. Pity about your eyes."

"How the fuck did you know about that?" Sands whispered. "Where the fuck are you?"

"I can't break the rules, and neither can you. We're still playing. We're still in the Lion's Den."

"Michael!" Sands was screaming now. "Where the fuck are you?"

"I'll wait for you when I make my next catch. She's a cute bitch at the Crazy Moon Café. I'll leave a note in her cunt."

Sands was shaking so hard he thought he might drop the phone. "Michael, please..."

"Oops, don't start again, old boy. Remember what happened last time. Bang, bang, bang!"

Bang, bang, bang.

Three times in the chest, he thought. Three times in the chest...Oh, god...

"Don't be a fucking coward!" Sands shouted with as much bravado as he could muster. "Meet me tonight--"

"Oh, I'll meet you tonight. I promise. But remember, Jeff! Bang-bang-bang, don't break the rules!"

Click.

Sands' throat felt dry and disgusting. He let the phone fall from his hand onto the floor, and he shakily bent down and put it back on the receiver.

"Who the fuck was that?" asked El, sounding horrified.

"We have to go," Sands whispered. "Now. We have to go now."

"Why?"

"I have to kill a man," said Sands, taking his shirt off the bed and pulling it over his bare chest, then picked up his guns from the nightstand and clicked them securely into his holsters, which were permanently tied around his waist.

"And where do we start?"

"Crazy Moon Café." He paused before going out the door. "I feel like I'm in some billion-dollar action film."

He heard El's jeans jingle as he stood up and laughed. "Well, you have to admit, we live pretty extraordinary lives."

Sands lit a cigarette quickly and stuck it between his lips. "Yeah, whatever." He bolted out the door towards the car, El following close behind.

x x x x x

"Here it is," said El, pulling the car to a stop in front of the Café. "He said he was going to this place?"

"Yes." Sands groped around for the car door handle and pulled it open, then stepped out onto the curb. "Is it straight ahead?"

"Straight ahead," El answered.

Sands pushed the door open, and was instantly bowled over by an utterly putrid smell coming from inside. It was blood.

He bit his cheek and pressed on, and the minute he entered he heard a keen and wild laugh.

"Hello, Jeffrey."

Sands had to take great care not to breathe. He knew that if he inhaled this smell for too long he would collapse. "How many are in here?" he wheezed.

"You mean bodies? Six. With pulses? Two."

"Oh, Christ," Sands whispered. He felt dizzy and he shifted his weight onto one foot, then trying to find a wall to lean on.

"Jesus, look at you! Blind as a bat! Who would have thought, huh?"

"Shut the fuck up." Sands managed to reach by his waist and pull out his gun, then point it in Michael's direction. "You crazy asshole. What the fuck are you doing in Mexico?"

"Looking for you," he said. "I missed you."

"And the others?"

"What others?"

"In your little gang. The ones who also tried to kill me at Whitmore Creek. The ones who have been going around cutting up kids and ex-girlfriends to pieces."

"Oh, them? Long gone. Dead. I killed every last one of them...I couldn't help it."

"And me? You just want to kill me, is that it?"

"Well, I thought I'd save the best for last. You were always a slippery fish, Jeffrey. I couldn't quite get a hold of you. All six times I wanted to nab you, you just persevered. I guess somebody up there likes you."

Sands' heartbeat slowed to a crawl. Six times? Michael had tried to kill him six times?

"Why the hell did you want to kill me?" asked Sands slowly, his brain still trying to arouse these memories from the dead. They wouldn't come up. Sands had blocked them out completely.

On purpose, perhaps.

"Why? Oh, I get a simple pleasure out of it. It's fun. Especially with guys like you, Sands. You're the greatest."

"You're out of your fucking skull," hollered Sands.

"You're not exactly one to wear the great label of sanity, either," said Michael. Sands could tell he was cracking one of his horrible grins. "I saw what you did to yourself as a kid. Cut yourself up and shit." He heard Michael light a cigarette. "I saved you, you know."

"What, by putting three fucking holes in my chest?"

"No. The game and I...we saved you. If not for us, you'd have gone off your rocker and dug into your wrists with your teeth."

"What the fuck is this game you keep talking about?" asked Sands wearily.

"Oh, my god. Don't tell me you've forgotten?" drawled Michael. He released a wild peal of laughter, then stopped after a few seconds. "I'll refresh your memory for you then."

The first thing Sands heard was a loud bang, and he felt a force pierce his left arm that spun him into a half-circle, and he slumped on the floor. It took a moment for the pain to set in; Michael had shot him. He cried out and banged the back of his head against the wall, damning his brain. Work, god damn you, work! He had no idea what Michael was talking about; this cutting-himself-up business. Sands was a great kid, with a housewife mom and a banker dad, and a golden retriever. He had the whole fucking package of the American Dream.

_And you hated it,_ whispered his head. _You HATED it. Your mother killed herself when you were ten..._

Stop...

_Daddy beat you senseless..._

Stop it...

_Your first day of college you tried to kill yourself. You took some Schick razors and sliced your wrists open like oranges._

"No..."

"What's that, Jeff?" asked Michael.

"No," Sands repeated. "It's not true..."

Why couldn't he just leave the past alone? Why did it have to re-surface and dunk him back under into the freezing cold?

Because Michael Order had indeed refreshed his memory with that stupid bullet lying in his arm, which was now bleeding to the point where his brain felt like it was collapsing.

Because Michael Order wanted Sands to play the game. And that's what The Lion's Den was. The Lion's Den was pain... and knowing that perhaps the pain on the outside could kill that thing on the inside. And Michael followed the game perfectly.

Sands allowed himself time to bleed before remembering the rules.

x x x x x

More coming in a few days; hope you've enjoyed so far! Please tell me what you think, it means the world. And by the way, if you think the next showdown will be the last, think again. I've got so many ideas and weird twists for this fic that it's barely begun. Muahaha. Stay tuned!


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